Perchance to Dream
by blinkblink
Summary: They say, when you die, your life flashes in front of your eyes. Hal Emmerich has never been very good with convention. Only slash if you want it to be...


Disclaimer: Don't own MGS

PERCHANCE TO DREAM

They say, when you die, your life flashes in front of your eyes.

Hal Emmerich has never been very good with convention.

* * *

The air is thick with the metallic scent of fused wires, melted circuits and ozone. Hal's mind categorizes this automatically, labelling it and setting it carefully on its own shelf, just as he does the pain in his chest, the blinding light flashing, the howling of his partner's voice in his ears. Snake is above him, face visible even through the lights, and rather than paying attention to his shouting, the frantic intensity of his eyes, the calloused hands on already numbing skin, he instead traces the bright streaks of sunlight in his partner's hair, wisps of blond in brown, wheat in wood, gold in gloom.

He is tracing them even as his own gray eyes dim.

* * *

It's stupid, he thinks, lying on the cement, watching his life bleed away into the gutter. The air is filled with the buzz of the crowd, the roar of engines, the sound of the city at rush hour. Dave will be pissed. He's survived Shadow Moses, survived the Tanker, survived the Big Shell, only to die on the street, victim of a hit and run, of his own clumsiness, of his head-in-the-air lifestyle. But Dave won't say anything, because he doesn't know. Doesn't know that Hal's lying here dying- _don't think about it, don't think about it_- because he's at home in the apartment scanning Hal's flagged sites for information about Olga's kid, or working out, or making lunch, or any of a hundred other things which mean he isn't here.

Hal tries to dial him, bring up his frequency on the codec, before he remembers his last round of nanomachines decomposed weeks ago, and reaches for his phone instead, or tries to, because all that happens is that the coldness of the pavement on his side seems to spread to his arm, and breathing suddenly becomes difficult. Someone grabs him, tells him not to move, babbling about 911 and ambulances, and this is not important right now because he's dying- _oh god, don't think about it_- and Dave still doesn't know.

"Phone," he hisses, and it takes all the air in his chest for just that one word. Some worried face swims into view above him in the sea of faded colours there, says something reassuring about the hospital, and Hal wishes he had the energy to curse. "Need to call," he manages, tries to reach for his phone again. The coldness spreads, fingers and arm numb, shoulder going.

The bastard above him tells him they've already called, not to worry, and he does curse then, and feels tears begin to fall, because god fucking dammit he's _dying_ and Dave doesn't know, and he needs to tell him, needs to talk to him, needs to hear his voice. The colours above him change, and a higher voice cuts in, asking for the number. Far away, he thinks he can hear sirens ringing, but he tells her the number, blows their cover to hell, and won't Dave be furious?

The phone is ringing against his ear, in it, loud tone vibrating against his ear drum, and the horrible fear begins to flood in, maybe Dave won't answer, maybe he's not there, maybe he's in the shower, and he'll miss the call, and Hal will never be able to tell him that he's dying, never talk to him again, never hear his voice, because -_oh god, no, please_- Dave needs to know. His thoughts are skipping out of control, pebbles tumbling down a steep hill, and he can't catch them.

There is a quiet click at the other end and the ringing stops, and the word disconnected appears suddenly in Hal's head carved from ice, but then there is a deep, gruff whisper of "Hello?"

He means to say hello, means to say Dave, or even just make an affirmative hum, but all he can do is gasp, chest numbing quickly.

"Hello?" says Snake again, with more volume, irritation seeping into his tone.

"Dave," hisses Hal, finding breath. He's not sure about the sirens anymore. Everything is fading into a background noise, loud and thick and blurred, white noise.

"Hal? What's wrong? Hal?"

"Dave…" he says, and his throat catches. He can't finish, can't say it, because if he does it'll be true. He can't lie to Dave, who lives by his information, by his advice, by his facts, by his truth.

"Hal, what the hell's going on?" says Dave, and it's so much work to make sense of the sounds, so much effort that he pants with it, heart racing in his cold chest.

"Dave," he repeats, and flounders. The phone is taken away, and over the din of the crowd he can hear that light voice speaking quickly.

He doesn't know what to add, what he could turn to truth with his words. _I'm scared_, or _It'll__ be okay_, or _I love you_. If he tells it to Dave, it must be true.

The phone is placed against his ear again, warm against his cold cheek, and Dave says, sounding sharp and hurried, "Hold on- I'm coming, Hal."

"Dave," he whispers as the phone's heat disappears, "I'm sorry."

* * *

The Kasatka is listing slightly to the left, the Harrier's last volley having strifed dangerously close to the rotor, doing minute damage to the wiring, which, if there is any shrapnel near the connections, might turn into major damage with very little warning. Aware that there is nothing he can do about it, Otacon bites his lip and tries to keep an eye on the Harrier while hovering close enough to the kid to provide aid.

Raiden's not doing badly, considering he's almost single-handedly taking on a Harrier. He's wasted plenty of missiles, but he hasn't been hit yet, and he's scored a few hits himself. Otacon catches a glimpse of him vaulting from the top level of the bridge to the bottom as the Harrier hovers over and tries to burn him with its exhaust. Raiden has found safety under a still-intact portion of the bridge though, and Solidus turns his attention to them, the Harrier's sharp nose rounding to take aim at the Kasatka. Otacon pulls the stick tight to the side, evening out the turn with his feet, and the bullets sluice past them. In the back, he hears Snake fire a grenade from his RPG, curses as the helicopter's rapid, unannounced turn throws off his aim. "Dammit, Otacon, try to hold it steady," he shouts over the sound of the rotors, loads another round as the Harrier takes off, disappearing far into the blue sky in seconds.

Down on the Shell, Raiden clambers up the burning stairs and hoists his Stinger onto his shoulder, fires off a round. In the distance there is the tiny spark of light that signifies a hit, and then the Harrier is shooting by, the Kasatka shivering slightly in the waves of the slipstream behind the jet. "Bring it closer, the kid needs another ration," Snake shouts, and Otacon checks the blinking monitors before him, registers the Harrier's signature far out to the left, before bringing the helicopter in close to the Big Shell, close enough for Snake to toss out a ration and another pack of missiles for the kid. He's not very thrifty, but it's not as if they're doing much better, which is all the thought Otacon has to devote to the matter before his display beeps signalling the Harrier's return approach. He pulls them into a turn, backing away from the bridge. "No, wait, the Harrier's almost finished," Snake tells him, raising his RPG. Otacon wants to tell him he's worried about the rotor, about some of the readouts from the electrical system, about his own skills which weren't honed for combat flying, but there's no time. The Harrier's wheeling in at her slowed pace, aiming for the kid, spraying out rounds of bullets.

As Snake said, she's smoking heavily now; wavering in the air like a kite, unable to keep steady, bullets no longer cutting a straight line through the air. That's an advantage for the kid, who's a small target, but not much of one for the Kasatka. Even as Otacon watches, Raiden picks his opportunity and lets fly with another Stinger missile. It scores on the jet's left wing, producing massive amounts of smoke and the brighter flicker of fire. The Harrier retaliates with a round of missiles of her own, and Raiden dives for cover through a hole in the bridge's top layer.

Main target gone, the Harrier turns in the air, still quick and sleek despite the damage, and Otacon wheels the Kasatka around to face her, present the helicopter head on and provide a smaller target while backing up with all the speed she's got. The Harrier fires off another long, howling round of bullets, projectiles strafing in a crooked line from right to left straight across the Kasatka, still turning desperately. She is not fast enough.

They score a deep line along the chopper's side, a row of dark spots like an uneven trail; across the chopper's windshield, glass breaking in spider-web circles around the bullet holes; into the gas-line, yellow liquid beginning to pour like rain from the helicopter's side; through Otacon's chest, the passage through flesh and bone soon filled with blood.

He gasps at the pain, at the shock, and the world loses a substantial portion of its light almost immediately. The chopper shakes under his trembling hands, a dying beast in the care of a dying master, and he finds his thoughts slipping away from him like sand through fingers, gone and irretrievable, their existence forgotten almost immediately.

From the back, he hears Snake shouting something, voice rough over the wind. Before him, the cockpit of the Harrier shatters, smoke and fire billowing up from the jet like streamers, and it begins to sink towards the ocean. Otacon's vision is already beginning to blur, and he can hardly make out the orange of the bridge. He sees no sign of a figure there, knows he has no time to look for one. He guides the Kasatka with shaking limbs, feet twitching on the pedals, hands trembling on the sticks, heart tripping in his chest. He knows he is dying, without knowing how he knows, because he can only keep so many thoughts in his head at once, and those are less important than the ones telling him how to keep this metal beast in the air, less important than the ones telling him to hold on, because Snake needs to live, and he can't fly. His partner is speaking. Otacon can hear him, but there's a windstorm in his head, and it's hard to make out the words. "Snake," he hisses, tongue heavy, the taste of blood sharp in the back of his throat. He isn't loud enough, but it doesn't matter.

"-a second, I'm not sure the kid can keep his grip on-" Snake appears from the back without Otacon noticing his approach, gone one minute, there the next. He stops short when he sees the windshield, turns quick as his namesake to Otacon, who is panting harshly in his seat, the sound lost in the noise-filled cockpit. "_Fuck_," he says, and Otacon shifts his eyes for a second, just a second, because although there isn't much time now he figures he can afford to spend it how he wants. Snake is staring at him, eyebrows slightly raised, green eyes wide as Otacon's never seen them before, mouth still slightly open from cursing, white teeth resting on his bottom lip. He looks more shocked than Otacon's ever known him to be, ever imagined he could be, and more pained. Then the second is past, a grain of sand lost, and Snake is leaning in, pulling a bandage from somewhere and pressing it hard against Otacon's chest. The engineer gasps, hands and feet slipping on the controls, darkness pulsing thickly around his vision. The Kasatka lurches.

Snake drops the bandage, the light weight falling into the engineer's lap, already soaked with dark blood. "Otacon," he says thickly, kneeling beside him but without any contact, hand hovering an inch from Otacon's on the altitude control.

"Almost there," hisses the engineer, and there is blood in his mouth now, thick and hot and salty. He swallows, almost chokes, throat closing. His sight hasn't recovered, is darker than vision through tinted glass, depth perception fading.

"Snake," he says again, tries to pull together something, anything, other than the terrible cold fear slowly rising in his gut.

"Yeah?" says the soldier, softly, and then, "I'm here," a light hand resting on his shoulder.

Otacon thinks he would be crying, if he had the strength, if he had the salt or the liquid left, but he doesn't, and his thoughts are pouring out with his blood. He's losing control of the helicopter, losing the knowledge of how to fly her, skills nowhere near instinctive yet.

Something orange is looming, close now, slightly below them, he can only recognize the colour because it is so bright, bright as the setting sun, and still dimming. "Hard to see," he whispers, words soaked in blood, head too heavy to lift, arms beginning to drop.

"Here is good. Put it down here, Otacon. Here," says Snake's voice in his ears, and he tries to remember what down means. His hands slip from the levers.

There is a harsh jolt, and with it his sight is almost gone, darkness closing in like a fog.

"Otacon?" asks Snake, voice very near now, loud in a sudden silence, deep and gruff. And then, more quietly, "Hal?"

He tries to answer, twist his tongue into words, gather the few grains of sand left. "Snake," he whispers, lips barely moving, "I…"

The sand runs out.

* * *

The sea is thrashing below Otacon, rain pounding in his face, water cold and tasteless in his mouth. Up ahead he can see the lights of the Verrazano Bridge looming like stars in a clear night, pale and shimmering. He regrets taking such a small boat, regrets not planning for this eventuality, regrets ordering Mei Ling to stay on the dock and wait for him to find Snake. At least then he'd have some company out in this damn storm.

He is soaked to the skin, exposed hands and throat ice cold in the cutting wind, eyes almost blind behind wet glasses. He can't see the tanker. Can't see Snake. Can barely see the front of the boat, a sleek little 20 foot speedboat he jacked from a marina. The back, sitting low in the river, is beginning to take on water as waves pound into the boat, washing over the sides and back. Otacon's got the bilge pump working, but he knows it's not pumping out as much water as is being taken on, wasn't meant for use outside of pumping a few cans' worth of water out in the shelter of the marina.

Up ahead the water is disturbingly calm, but moving in quick rifts, here and there opposing currents meeting in miniature whirlpools. In the poor light of the bridge, he thinks he can see wreckage floating. He slows the boat, gets out a flashlight and begins to shine it over the water, its weak beam almost completely useless.

_Snake!_ He dials into the codec, begins to try to contact his partner, as he already has dozens of times this night with varied but increasingly lessening response. _Snake, can you hear me?_ _Snake?_ There is no answer. He worries his lip, peering out from behind his soaked glasses, pushes them up to wipe at his eyes, also filled with water.

There's something floating in the water up ahead, something which is not flat or angular, but long and slightly rounded and looks disturbingly like a body. The flashlight does nothing to help, and he drops it with a curse, revs the engine slightly to take the boat forward more quickly, the nose lifting high into the air as he does so. He almost overshoots the object, boat skittering on ahead, rocking in the harsh wind.

Otacon runs to the side of the boat, pushing his glasses up to sit on the top of his head and stares into the dark water looking for whatever it is that might be floating there. He nearly shouts when something bumps the side of the boat, bites his tongue hard to keep from doing so as he looks down, heart racing in his chest.

It is a body. A dead body, in the water. And it's not Snake. His legs feel weak with relief, heart calming slightly, hands white on the side of the boat. He stands there, searching the water with his poor eyesight, trying to raise Snake on the codec, ignoring the storm blowing about him, ignoring the cold of his skin, ignoring the water in the bottom of the boat. He _will_ find Snake. He can't conceive of any other possibility.

More wreckage floats by. More bodies. Marines dressed in fatigues, two Russian troops with different uniforms and black masks. A plethora of boxes and light goods. The boat, unattended, is drifting further into the calm water which is beginning to roughen now; currents are meeting more frequently, whirlpools widening, waves forming. The boat begins to shudder.

Otacon ignores all of this, puts out of mind everything which is not essential, which is not Snake, and continues looking. He fishes a long pole out of the water and begins knocking aside boxes, prodding at anything big enough to be hiding Snake somewhere on it, imagining his partner clinging unconscious to some flotsam, unable to respond. The boat is shaking now, waves lapping against its sides.

Down below, the scuttled tanker is singing like some perverse whale, rending metal raising its voice through the depths in a last dirge, a requiem for all the lost souls in its bowels. Otacon refuses to consider that Snake might be one of them. The rain is falling heavily on him, sucking the heat from his body and the colour from his skin. The boat is bucking in earnest now, and it is only when Otacon is thrown away from the side and lands in a deep pool of water does he realise the back end is almost completely under, boat being pulled down in the undertow of the tanker.

He struggles to his feet, still calling Snake, codec connection open even when he is silent, and stumbles to the front of the boat. He's in the middle of a violent sea now, water deeply uneven and roaring, wreckage sinking in the strong arms of the river.

_Snake!_ He shouts, shouts out loud as well, voice lost in the storm. The boat turns rapidly without warning, throws him against the side hard enough to stun him slightly, and he sits there in a deepening pool of water, already too numb to feel it, aware that he needs to get the boat out of here, that the back is so low already that it hardly takes a wave of any size to wash over the sides into the interior. He pulls himself up, leaning on the side, and stares out into the darkness. He can no longer see the lights of the bridge. Deep below, the tanker hums once more, and Otacon wonders if he was wrong, and it is calling him.

He puts a hand on the throttle, and, tears in his eyes indistinguishable from the rain, pushes it down sharply. The boat shifts rapidly under him and then, rotors grabbing hold of the water, pulls the back even further into the river. Water floods inside as the boat loses what little stability it had, rearing out of the dark river, a white fibreglass stallion. Otacon falls backwards towards the churning froth of water that is the back of the boat, and rather than be sucked into the rotors grabs the side and pitches himself over, into the harbour.

The water isn't cold at all, and although it's rough, it's almost like being wrapped in a blanket. To the side, he sees the boat flounder and begin to sink in earnest, sides disappearing quickly into darkness. He is suddenly, startlingly glad that Mei Ling didn't come.

Swimming is difficult, and although he feels no cold, something is draining his strength quickly, and he doesn't try to kick for long. Instead he rolls onto his back and lies still as he was taught years and years ago. It's fitting, he thinks, for him to die like this, before an intense rush of adrenaline drives home the fact that _he is going to die_. He straightens in the water, throat constricting so quickly it's hard to breath. A wave washes over his head, pushes him down, and he feels the current tugging at him, the river wrapping its strong fingers around him. Down below the tanker is screaming. He tries to shout, flailing his arms, breaks the surface again only to have water pour into his mouth, freezing and salty and terrifying.

"_Snake_!" He shouts, because there is no one left, and Snake always knows what to do, always survives, always wins.

The water shifts abruptly, current slamming into his side like a brick wall, and he is pushed under again, fingers stronger this time, and he can't kick free, can't see, can't hear, can't breathe, all he knows is the terrifying, sickening taste of salt in his mouth.

_Otacon?_whispers a quiet voice inside his head.

"Snake!" Hope sparking hot in his chest, he opens his mouth and shouts, even as the undertow crushes the breath from his body, and salty water floods in all at once. If there is an answer, he doesn't hear it.

* * *

Hal lies in a thick mist, the scent of pine stinging in his nose and mouth. The mist is over his thoughts, is around his thoughts, _is_ his thoughts, slow and cool and dull. The bright, sharp green smell is the only thing which really registers. Everything else is gone; the knife in his back has opened a hole for the burning anxiety to bleed out of.

The floor under him is cool linoleum, smooth and white and just slightly scuffed. His glasses magnify the shallow grooves oddly, make thick scrapes and deep canyons out of them. Strands of his dark hair are trailing on the floor like rivers, spreading away from him along with his blood, his breath. He coughs and they flow, describing wide riverbeds in the white landscape.

Faded memories are dancing in the mist, bright colours dulled to shades of grey. Hal remembers the quick flash of Snake's eyes, the fury and outrage and horror shining there, remembers the cutting pain in the soldier's voice for one flickering instant as the knife was plunged into his back. That was the moment where his life ended, the sun setting. This is just the twilight before darkness. There is a tightness in his chest, a pinprick of warmth, but in the fog of his mind he can't recognize it.

Snake is lying on the ground near by, a long red snake-ish smear on the linoleum floor marking his path over towards the engineer. Hal watches him with low-lidded eyes, trying to fit pieces of a puzzle together, to put his heart together again so he knows what to feel, feels more than this empty grey. He has no strength. The only thing keeping him awake is the linoleum's stinging pine in his nose.

Snake is panting hard, voice harsh and catching in the back of his throat, the only sound in this make-shift crypt. The rest of the bodies have already lost their breath, watched wide-eyed as it poured out and couldn't bring it back, couldn't reverse the flow. Hal gives them no attention; they are nothing more than shadows, background music. It is costing almost more than he can find to pay to keep Snake out of that darkness, to keep his attention on the soldier, to keep him from drifting away.

The soldier is still trying to drag himself over to Hal, but his breath is slipping away from him in great shuddering gasps. He can't crawl any further, legs sliding uselessly against the smooth floor in weak movements. His sides are heaving, sleek blue-green coated with rust red, all faded into grey pastels in Hal's eyes. Snake makes another jerking move, tries to slide closer. His leg slips and he drops to the floor with a wet cough.

The mist stirs. Hal's body is heavy and numb, unwieldy as a fledgling's taking its first flight. He pulls his knees up under himself and shifts forward, more by momentum than coordination. Bright silver rivers melt out from the knife and burn his muscles, lungs, heart. A moan wells up in his throat and he bites his teeth against it, dropping dizzily to the cool floor. His nose stings. He lies near the soldier's head, and watches the blood pool out from Snake's stomach with dark eyes. The scent of lemony pine is mixed with salty metal.

Snake turns to look at him in a slow clockwork jerking movement. His green eyes are already unfocused, the sun hidden behind clouds. "Ota-ta-c-con," he pauses to suck in a breath, lips painted red as sunset, "s-sorry…" The soldier's fingers twitch in a grasping motion, his rattling breath echoing in the still room. Hal slides his arm nearer, tries to reach them. His movements are slow and heavy, as if he is moving through cold honey rather than air. He can't reach, falls short a foot away, stares stupidly at the distance between them. Snake's fingers drop to the floor. The room falls silent.

The mist freezes over and, in a burst of sound and light, shatters. Emotion floods in through burst levies with crushing force, too late. Hal gives a great sobbing gasp as the shrouds fall from his thoughts and realisation flares like dawn in the arctic, so bright and cold it burns. His chest fills with sorrow and loss thicker and tighter than all the pain and blood already there. He pulls his arm and leg up, pain tearing him in two, and recklessly scrambles to push himself closer. The knife in his back shifts and sensation overloads into brightness for a second, a stun grenade exploding at close quarters. When it filters back in, his nose has knocked into Snake's head, pressed into his thick, cool hair. Hal keens quietly, high in his throat, with as much breath as he has left. The soldier smells of pine, clean and fresh. Hal's hand searches with slow sweeps of his fingers, finds Snake's still-warm wrist.

He's half-coughing, half-sobbing, trying to pull in breaths and finds them stealing away from him. He wraps his fingers tight around Snake's, eyes closed, mouth suddenly full and hot.

"S-snake…" his words are not even a whisper, just a breath flowing away into the silence with his blood, his tears, his life. He wonders why it smells salty.

* * *

The soldier stands still as he speaks, absolutely still, watching with green snake eyes, cold and deadly. It would be less intimidating if he paced, or gestured with his hands, or even shrugged. But he does none of these things, and when he condescends to move, to inspect the lab's supercomputers, or escort Hal back to his chair, his movements are sharp and small, quick efficient uses of motion with a hint of the kind of skill that can break bones without effort. Snake doesn't flaunt his strength; he doesn't have to. Hal would have been impressed, even if he hadn't seen the soldier defeat the ninja, but that victory had won the soldier the engineer's unconditional support.

Stomach clenching, he listens to the soldier's report on Rex's nuclear capabilities, the perversion of his interests, the violation of his trust. Betrayal leaves a familiar sour taste in his mouth.

Snake either thinks him a credulous idealist, or an idiot. Whichever is the case, it is certainly true that the soldier has a limited interest in him. He is already gathering his thoughts, moving on to the next objective. Saving Hal had been an accident, a short unplanned stop along his longer road. He really is incredible.

Hal tells the soldier how to get to his goal, of the long road past the communication towers to the underground base where Rex is sleeping, warns him of the distance. Snake accepts the warning coldly, clearly not assigning much value to the engineer's advice. It stings, but Hal can't blame him.

"I'll show you the way," he tells the soldier, takes a limping step forward.

"On that leg of yours?" Snake's sharp eyes dart to his ankle, still aching from his earlier fall. "You'll just slow me down." His tone is unimpressed. Hal resists the urge to wilt. He has a duty, a duty to see that he doesn't make the same mistake as his grandfather.

"You'll need me if you're going to destroy Rex," he points out, plays the only possible card he has.

"I don't need you. I just need your brain."

"I created Rex. It's my right… my duty to destroy it," Hal remembers clearly his grandfather's bowed back, dull eyes, the horror that haunted him until his dying day. That won't be him.

Snake doesn't seem to hear, or if he does, he ignores it. Instead, he pulls a gun out, a semi-automatic, and checks the sights. It isn't a menacing gesture as such, gun pointed at the wall, but it's clear with whom the decision here lies. "If you get a chance, try to escape," he tells Hal, checking the chamber before sliding the gun back in its holster without looking. "When the coast is clear, I'll contact you by codec."

Hal smiles, slightly, knows he has the soldier beaten here, at least. "How am I supposed to escape from an island?" It took three different planes, decreasing in size the further north they flew, to bring him to Shadow Moses. There's no way he can arrange for such transportation in the middle of a terrorist situation.

Snake's eyes darken slightly, but he is already processing this information and reformatting his plans around it. "Hm. Okay."

"So what then?" Hal tests his ankle, slowly shifting his weight onto it, but before it's supporting even half it's already beginning to send shooting pains up, and he's forced to lean off of it again. He doubts Snake will allow him to come. But if the alternative is to stay here in the lab, waiting for the next maniac, for Liquid or Revolver Ocelot or Psycho Mantis to show up, he'd rather take his chances on the base.

"I want you to hide somewhere, keep me informed. You know this place well, don't you?" Snake indicates the facility with a glance.

Hal bristles slightly. "Of course I do!" He calms slightly, and realises that this means he isn't confined to the lab, in fact has been given a valid reason to leave it. "And don't worry, I've got this." With a flick of a switch he activates the stealth camo for an instant, feels the static electricity rustling over his skin like dry leaves, before turning it off again. "It's the same stealth technology as the ninja. Foxhound was going to use them, but… with this I'll be fine, bad leg and all." He shrugs, gives a weak smile. Snake doesn't reciprocate, but the straight line of his mouth doesn't turn further into a frown, either. Hal begins to think that, under all that cold anger, the soldier might just have a friendly side.

"Here," he says, reaching into the breast pocket of his lab coat. "I'll give you my pass. It's security level four." He hands over the plastic card, warm with his electric field. Snake takes it easily, as if he's used to such favours. He is, instead of looking at the card he's been handed, watching Hal. Those odd green eyes glint in the fluorescent light.

"What?" says Hal.

"Do you feel okay?" asks the soldier, apropos of nothing, head tilted to the side slightly. He reaches out and drops a heavy gloved hand on Hal's shoulder, weight firm and real, in a way that nothing else has been since Liquid arrived. "Nothing bothering you?" he adds, as Hal's shoulder begins to cool, and he realises the gloves must insulate heat.

"No-o," he begins, but that's not quite right. There is something, a slight tickle in his chest, and when he shifts it stiffens into an ache. He pauses to rub at his collarbone with the heel of his hand, and as he begins a spike of pain shoots down his left arm, stronger than the pain from his ankle, strong enough that he yelps and grabs at his shoulder with his right hand, trying to cut off the pain.

He feels very wrong now, head spinning, heart beginning to race in his chest, and doesn't notice Snake pushing him into his chair so much as he notices the strong fingers digging into his upper arms, guiding him, anchoring him.

"Doctor?" says Snake, and for some reason Hal doesn't understand, the word has never sounded so wrong. But the pain in his arm is spiking like lightning back into his chest, and he gasps, mind spinning in confusion. Then the pain is all he knows, heart ripping apart, that and the cold fingers holding him down, holding him tight, holding him.

"Snake?" he gasps, without meaning to. Without knowing why. His heart bursts.

* * *

Hal's eyes snap open as consciousness floods in, thick and cold and heavy as water. His chest aches, as does his stomach. There's a taste of ozone in his mouth, and something else, slightly salty. He gasps, breath forced into his burning lungs.

Snake is sitting low on the engineer's stomach, hands resting on his chest, staring down at him with dark eyes. "Snake?" he whispers. Snake relaxes slightly, leans back, and then pulls himself off to one side. Hal tries to rise, and a heavy hand on his shoulder stops him.

"Don't move. I just got your heart going again."

"Nnh?" He stares at Snake, words making as little sense as if they were in another language.

"You electrocuted yourself."

"Wha?" His hands are numb, skin further up his arms tingling, chest continuing to ache with each heart beat, tiny painful daggers stabbing through him. As his mind shifts into gear, he begins to recognize the sensations, the flashing lights across his sight. They're familiar, although they've never been so strong before; he's never gotten in the way of that level of current before.

Snake leans over to hover more closely, taking Otacon's head in his hands, tilting him to meet the soldier's eyes. "Otacon, what day is it?" he asks, voice gruff and just a little bit sharper than usual, and Otacon thinks he should know why the soldier's using his worried voice, but he can't seem to catch hold of that thought, right now. He's also not entirely sure what day it is, and he figures that Snake will probably get mad at him if he guesses, so he doesn't. He stares up into the soldier's green eyes instead, wonders if he's ever noticed before how green they are.

"Snake?" he asks again, more for the sound, to taste the word, to know he has the time to say it as many times as he wants. He feels the soldier's left hand disappear only to reappear pressed against his throat.

"Otacon, what-"

He cuts Snake's question off. "Wanted to tell you," he begins, pauses. So many things, so many missed opportunities, so much he never got to say, so much he never got to have. "'m just… glad to be with you."

"Hal, you're going to be fine," growls Snake firmly, dropping codenames for emphasis. One hand supports Hal's head, the other drops to rest splayed over his heart. Snake's eyes shine brightly, even in the shadows.

"I know." Hal pauses, nods slightly. "I know."


End file.
